


Chicken Hot Dish

by Lunasong365



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: After Apocalypse, Canon Compliant, Chickens, Gen, Hot sauce, agri-fair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:32:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9487352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365
Summary: A life-changing event that Remus can'tquiteremember is the impetus for him and his brother to quit their jobs and move to what they hope will be a quiet life in the country raising chickens.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally published as _The Birds and the Bees: Chicken Hot Dish_ in partial response to a prompt by edna_blackadder for the 2016 Good Omens Holiday Exchange.  
>  My prompt was to write about ‘something focusing on one or more of the really minor characters and their adventures post-book.’ There really were two brothers who vowed on Apocalypse Day that they would leave their respective jobs and become chicken farmers. Hopefully this story reminds you who they are.

 

Doreen had kicked him out.

A lot of people seemed to have been making life-changing decisions lately.  It seemed that either they’d made detailed resolutions to better their lives or had said, “Bugger this! I’m gonna do whatever I want!” Remus wasn’t sure which side of the fence Doreen was on. She’d lost her job as the poissonnier at Angler when the seafood market had inexplicably tanked, and had grudgingly accepted a position in the kitchen at Applebee’s. The change had left her more ill-tempered than ever. In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have mentioned that the thought of _any_ fish, alive or delicately seared with lemon basil sauce and radish garnish with a side of pea shoots, was currently stomach-churning. She’d winged the plate at him as he’d stumbled down the steps onto the street, letting it shatter just like the paradigm he’d once held of how Life Should Be – steady advancement through the ranks, marriage and family, the occasional holiday in Torremolinos…

It takes a lot to faze a copper from the Met, especially one who’d seen as much as he had. It didn’t really matter that the constable now couldn’t quite remember what it was he had seen. Remus felt completely and utterly fazed. He reached down to tickle the neighbour’s cat, which was feasting on the unanticipated repast of Chilean sea bass, then gently picked it up and out of the street for safety. He was, even when off-duty, a consummate public servant. Perhaps it was time to serve elsewhere.

Remus headed toward the classic red phone box on the corner to call his brother.

 

ˏ( ˘⌔˘)ˎ♡ 

 

The tiny hamlet of Hugiffs off Uck in East Sussex was quiet and well-ordered. Remus liked to think he’d had something to do with that. In reality, though, his most challenging duty was preventing defacement of the ‘River Uck’ signs. Roman had been the one who’d designed the [unusual shape](http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1329/571413541_2db048b116_m.jpg) that now graced the markers. He and his brother had been named after an old legend, but Remus sometimes wondered if his mother had been aware of how the story ended.

Of course, police work necessitated community involvement. Remus was involved right now in eating some community biscuits with Nancy Mulgrew and Suhkdev Khurma of the Neighbourhood Watch Alliance.

“Officer Terwiddle,” Nancy inquired while passing the plate, “will your brother be showing his chickens next week at the Agri-Fair?”

Remus set down his tea mug and reached for a biscuit. Roman’s chickens were somewhat renowned in town. When he’d quit the Atomic Energy Authority Constabulary in 1990, Roman had picked this small town at random from an ad in _Poultry World_ magazine. He’d adopted the small flock of Faverolles chickens that had come with the expired pensioner’s smallholding, and treated them much like pets. When Remus had moved in, he’d had to shoo a broody hen off his prospective bed and out the window.

Now, several years and multiple generations later, the chickens still had the run of the garden. Roman had no shortage of sturdy local matrons stopping by to buy his surplus pink eggs, but he remained rather unaffected by female attention. Instead, he spent most evenings arbitrating the pecking order of the flighty pullets and wily hens that nevertheless obediently trooped into the chicken coop as dusk fell. His brother had given each one a name.

Remus couldn’t tell them apart.

The officer swallowed the tasty morsel and considered Nancy’s question. “I should think so,” he responded. “Roman’s dream is to win a bronze star in Rare Breeds at the National Poultry Club show in Shropshire come November, so every preliminary show is important to him.” He immediately regretted revealing so much. His brother might be one for showmanship and glibness, but Remus had never felt comfortable with self-promotion.

“Ooh,” Nancy cooed, “that sounds exciting. To have a National Champion right here in Hugiffs off Uck. Well, what about you? Are you going to enter something in the fair?” She gestured to her biscuits. “I’ll be submitting something special, so be sure to tell Roman I’ll be stopping by soon for fresh eggs! And Suhkdev!” she addressed the reticent greengrocer, “I’ll have need of some of your fresh spices!”

Remus shrugged. “I really hadn’t thought about it. I’m not sure I have a talent.”

Suhkdev shook his head. “Everybody has at least one. There is an old [fable](https://www.storyarts.org/library/aesops/stories/lion.html) about how a tiny mouse was able to save a lion from a net by using her talent. But it is also a story about keeping a promise. And finding friendship in an unexpected place.”

 

ˏ( ˘⌔˘)ˎ♡

 

"What can I do?” Remus asked his brother as they sat down in the back garden. “Nancy Mulgrew thinks I should enter something in the fair and Suhkdev Khurma agrees with her. I’m not sure there is _anything_ I do better than anyone else.” He wiggled his foot as a chicken pecked at his bootlace.

“Hmm, how about that hot sauce you use on eggs? That’s good stuff.” Roman unfolded the latest copy of _Poultry World_ and immediately grimaced. “Ugh, that Niles Barlow. He’s got himself another published article.” Roman still had a bit of the spokesperson about him and had submitted several write-ups to the periodical about the superior characteristics of Faverolles. Barlow favored the Dorking. Both were classified as Rare Soft-Feathered Heavy Breeds so the two often found themselves competing against one another at poultry shows.

Remus thoughtfully considered the suggestion. Even Doreen had liked his hot sauce.

“A lot of it has to do with presentation, anyway, in _that_ competition,” Roman continued. “If you come up with a great name and logo, people will talk about it. Half the fun is reading the names. It’s not on a par with the poultry judging, mind you. That’s a prelim show for the Nationals.”

Remus excused himself and went inside. An hour later, he returned and showed Roman his sketch.

 

  
“That’s cracking,” Roman enthused. “What’s an Odegra?”

“I don’t know! It sounds sinister though, doesn’t it?” Pleased, Remus scanned his sketch for safekeeping.

Tomorrow, he’d pay a visit to Suhkdev’s shop for varietal chiles and several other fresh ingredients.

 

ˏ( ˘⌔˘)ˎ♡

 

Remus came home from the shop to find Roman in the garden washing a chicken in a round tub of water, with a couple other birds queued in a transfer pen to go next. “How many birds are you planning to show?” he asked.

Roman shrugged as he carefully plunged the tawny hen up and down in the water, then lifted it to drain. “I’m hedging my bets. Joyce here is probably the one, but I want to have Hannah as a spare and Bonnie needs to get used to the process.” He shifted Joyce to the next tub for a rinse, then wrapped her in a fluffy towel and patted her dry. Joyce was placed into a special holding pen Roman had set up for show prep, where she immediately started preening her damp feathers. Roman got the next chicken out of the wire transfer pen.

A car pulled into the gravel drive and Nancy Mulgrew got out. “Good day, gentlemen. Washing chickens? Well, I never. Roman, I’m here for some eggs.”

Roman handed the chicken to Remus and went into the house to get a carton of eggs. Remus awkwardly held the bird as Nancy chattered. He shooed some of the free-ranging chickens away from his shopping bag as he half-listened to Nancy and nodded appropriately at her cues.

“What’s in the bag, Officer Terwiddle?” Nancy was saying. Remus looked down at his feet. The grapefruit he had bought had rolled out and several other ingredients were visible. “Nothing special. Just a little something I’m cooking up.” At that moment Roman returned, and Remus handed him the chicken and escaped into the kitchen with his bag.

Remus washed his hands, turned on the fans, and laid out all the utensils needed to make his hot sauce. He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and started seeding peppers with a melon-baller. He set the green serranos under the broiler and began to chop the lemon drops and orange habaneros. Humming to himself, he sliced a carrot and added the chopped ingredients to a solution of rice vinegar and sea salt, and then set the pot on the hob to simmer.

A great hot sauce requires a unique balance of four elements: chiles, acid, aromatics, and salt. Remus’s secret ingredient was using citrus to cover two of those. He juiced a lime and half the grapefruit, and grated a lemon for fresh zest. Remus pulled the pot off the heat and blended everything together, then poured the concoction into a glass container and set it in the cooler. He would bottle it later after the flavors had had time to meld.

 

ˏ( ˘⌔˘)ˎ♡

 

Remus set two bottles of labeled hot sauce on the judging shelf while Roman nodded approvingly. “Looking good, Remus. Now, remember, preparation only gets you so far in competition. A lot depends on who else shows up.” Roman suddenly froze as he looked past the end of the aisle and out the open door of the building. “Wait. Was that _Niles Barlow?_   Remus, come on. You have to come with me!” Remus allowed himself to be pulled along, past the shelf where Nancy Mulgrew had already won a card for her Chewy Back-in-Black Treacles.

The brothers briskly walked to the poultry shed, where Barlow had just removed his Dorking hen from its pen. “Terwiddle,” he acknowledged, coolly nodding his head. “I might have known you would be here.”

“Barlow,” Roman growled. “So now you’ll travel two hundred and fifty miles just to try to show me up in some tiny regional fair?” The two were almost nose-to-nose.

Barlow snorted. “Hardly. You know this is a club show. There aren’t that many of them and I want to qualify for Shropshire, same as you.” He glowered at Roman.

Remus interjected, “Come on, fellows. This is not the place to get into this.” He tried to defuse the tension by moving between the two nemeses.

Barlow backed off. Still cradling his hen, he sat down heavily next to the holding pen.

The camp chair below him collapsed into a pile of splintered wood.  Startled and squawking, the hen flew several feet away, then skittered under the pen. Roman clambered after it. Barlow was whimpering on the ground, holding his wrist.

“Bugger,” he moaned. “I think I broke it.”

Roman returned the retrieved chicken to the pen while Remus tended to Barlow. “More likely sprained,” the off-duty officer commented, gently examining the joint. “Up you come now, and off to the infirmary. We’ll get it checked.”

“I can’t leave!” Barlow said. “I have to prep my hen for judging!”

Remus met both men’s eyes. He sighed. “I’ll prep your hen, Barlow. I’ve watched my brother do it enough times, and,” he looked meaningfully at his brother, “I’m sure _Roman_ will help me if I have questions. Now, off you go!” A crowd had started to gather and several bystanders were urging the rival competitor to seek medical attention. Barlow looked as if he wanted to continue to protest, then winced and held his wrist in pain as he resignedly allowed himself to be taken away.   

Remus opened the door of the pen and gently stroked the still-rattled fowl. He knew from observation that show birds are used to handling. The chicken gradually stopped vocalizing and started to settle. Remus checked Barlow’s small chest of supplies for the items he needed.

Barlow had already set a 10L bucket of water out to start his prep. Remus dipped a cloth into the water, wrung it, and used it to clean the hen’s eyes, beak, and nostril area.  He repeated the process with its legs and feet, and checked its vent as well. He used a small file to loosen any stubborn dirt from the scales, then glossied the feet, legs, comb, and wattle with a dab of petrolatum. He glanced across the pen row to see Roman doing much the same with his hen.

Holding the birds, the brothers walked together to the show pens. “Final thing you do,” Roman said, “is smooth their feathers with this silk cloth.” He handed over the cloth and smiled grudgingly. “The hen looks good, Remus.”

Remus ran the cloth over the chicken’s striking black and white barred neck feathers and made sure its wing and tail feathers were smoothly aligned. One final stroke, then he closed the door on the pen. “Best of luck, Roman,” he offered.

“Best of luck to you too. Oh! The judging should now be complete for hot sauce. Why don’t you go check it out? I’ll be there in a minute.”

Remus had forgotten all about the hot sauce.

He hurried back to the foodstuffs building just in time to see the judge and steward walking away from the display. His sauce had been carded. But that’s not what had gotten his attention.

“Doreen?” he managed to squeak. The judge turned.

“Remus,” she confirmed. “It has been a long time. What are you doing here?” Her eyes suddenly grew round. “Is that _your_ hot sauce?” Remus nodded in acquiescence.         

“I always did like your hot sauce,” Doreen acknowledged. “I didn’t know you were in the show. I wasn’t even sure you still lived in this area. We lost touch so long ago. We,” she gestured to the steward, “were just heading back to the show headquarters to match the entry numbers with the names. Walk with me please, Remus?”

Doreen explained that she was back at Angler and had even guested on some of Britain’s ubiquitous cooking shows. “I’m a bit more mellow than I used to be. I’m really sorry for how I treated you. Will you forgive me?”

Remus chuckled. “That depends. Can you forgive me? Fish _still_ gives me the willies. But,” he added conspiratorially as Roman entered the building, “I recently found out I have a thing for chicken.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Disclaimer: I don’t know anything about showing chickens or foodstuff judging at fairs in the UK. I used a couple websites for guidance, but mostly I just made things up. Most fairs would not allow a contestant to personalize their entry in any way, but I just had to find a way to use that crackin’ logo.
> 
> At the time I wrote this story I was following the exciting happenings of the 2016 National Poultry Show in Shropshire, so yes, this actually exists. 
> 
> Resources:
> 
>  **The Poultry Club of Great Britain** http://www.poultryclub.org/  
>  **Hot sauce idea source** http://www.bonappetit.com/people/out-of-the-kitchen/article/secret-awesome-hot-sauce
> 
> The original Good Omens woodblock artist is **David Frampton.**


End file.
